


I have no idea what a historian does

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV), Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Civil War, Conversations, Crossover, Doctors & Physicians, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Nurses, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Mary had first wondered when she saw the other wash her hands thoroughly, with a great deal of soap. And then when she'd gone pale when Byron Hale walked into the ward, wiping his filthy hands on his filthier apron.
Relationships: Anne Hastings & Mary Phinney, Emma Green & Mary Phinney, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney, Wyatt Logan & Lucy Preston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: Mercy Street Crossover Advent Silver and AU





	I have no idea what a historian does

“There’s something…wrong with that new nurse,” Anne Hastings positively hissed. “That Miss Preston.”

Mary was not generally inclined to agree with Nurse Hastings, Our Lady of Crimea and her usual adversary, but she couldn’t help it. She straightened her apron and dabbed at the forehead of the man before her before speaking. “If you please, Miss Hastings, you might say a bit more…”

“She speaks as if she knows everything that will occur and yet she cannot tell blue mass from quinine or any other medicine, she cannot tell which boy will spike a fever but is unsurprised by the casualty lists,” Anne said, warming to her theme. “There’s something… off about her.”

“You are more concerned than when I arrived?” Mary asked. She was reluctant to concur with Anne, but Miss Preston, who’d begged to be called Lucy, had the most peculiar faculties and deficits. She spoke French like a native despite claiming to be from a small farm in Missouri, which she didn’t call _Missoura_ , and she had begun to say something, so many times, and then clamped her mouth shut, as if she were telling a secret not her own.

“You were a widowed Baroness, Dorothea Dix’s hand-chosen protégé. I resented you, but I never doubted you,” Anne said. “Certainly not after you nearly took a bullet with your traveling bonnet still on.”

“She’s right,” Emma said. “I hadn’t wanted to say anything, I thought perhaps she was only new to nursing, as I once was, but Nurse Mary, I find myself uneasy around her. She looks at me and looks… it’s as if she knows what she oughtn’t and not what she should.”

“Are we being fair?” Mary asked. It was always the first question she asked and the last and Jedediah would not hesitate to point it out except she remembered the shadow in his dark eyes after Miss Preston had sat down at table with them for the evening meal, her eyes too alert during the blessing. She’d picked at her food and answered the questions she was asked modestly, but she’d gone quiet when they spoke of the men who died, quieter when Jedediah spoke of ether and morphia, her voice like a silver bell when she’d asked about Private Rittenhouse and how he would do. She’d used the word _prognosis_ and Jedediah’s eyes had narrowed.

“The better question is are we being wise,” Anne remarked sharply. It was her usual tone, but with a greater dose of apprehension that was normal. “To let her go among the patients when we suspect her qualifications, her motives and her very identity.”

“You suspect she is not who she says she is?” Mary said. “For her name seems to be the one thing she responds to naturally.”

“You’ve noticed that as well, then,” Anne said. To work with her instead of against, to have her skills and talents paired with Mary’s own and Emma’s not-insignificant insights and contributions… well, that would be something novel. And formidable.

“Yes,” Mary declared. “And I intend for us to discover the truth. Who Lucy Preston is, why she came and what in heaven’s name she means to do here.”

Just then came a sound each woman was familiar with, the suppressed moan of a soldier in pain, one too proud to call for help. Mary leaned closer to the man whose eyes were fluttering open, noting his lashes were almost as long and dark as Jedediah’s.

“Private Logan, what’s troubling you?” Mary said.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Timeless


End file.
